Chapter 4 - The Secret Conversation
The iron stairs were coated in a thin sheet of black ice, and every step felt like a gamble with gravity. I gripped the frozen metal railing with both hands, my boots slipping twice before I finally reached the lower landing outside the tall, arched windows of the grand study on the second floor.
The heavy velvet drapes inside were drawn shut, but a narrow slit of light cut through the gap between the fabric and the mahogany frame.
Crouching beneath the window ledge out of sight of the courtyard guards, I pressed my ear against the glass, letting the howling wind mask the sound of my ragged breathing.
“...you think you can lock me out of the Portside logistics contract, Cross?” A harsh, gravelly voice echoed through the glass. It was Moretti—older, ruthless, a relic of the old Chicago outfit who viewed modern real estate and private equity as mere toys compared to the docks and warehouses. “That territory has belonged to my family since your father was running numbers in Cicero.”
Dorian’s voice cut through the room, cold, steady, and utterly devoid of fear.
“Your father’s era ended twenty years ago, Vincenzo,” Dorian replied, the sound of ice clinking against glass suggesting he was pouring a drink. “The Portside contracts were legally acquired through public bidding. If your shell companies couldn't match the capital requirements, that’s a failure of your accountants, not my problem.”
“Capital requirements?” Moretti laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “You think this is about money? You’ve been expanding too fast, Cross. Moving into downtown high-rises, cozying up to city councilmen, playing the legitimate billionaire philanthropist while you leave your flanks exposed. You can’t protect everything.”
A heavy silence followed inside the study. I imagined Dorian standing across from him, tall, unblinking, his hands resting casually in his pockets while he mentally calculated how to destroy a man’s entire livelihood in a single afternoon.
“My flanks are just fine,” Dorian said softly, the quiet danger in his tone making my skin prickle. “And if you ever mention my wife, or my home, or my family in that tone of voice again, Vincenzo, you won't leave this estate upright. Your associates outside already know the odds. Do you?”
“You’ve gone soft, Dorian,” Moretti spat back. “That little wife of yours... I hear you’ve been drawing up divorce papers. Word travels fast when you sleep in your office every night. A man whose house is falling apart doesn't have the stomach for a war.”
My breath caught in my throat.
Divorce papers.
How did Moretti know about the divorce papers? We had only signed—or rather, refused to sign—them that very morning in a private attorney’s office downtown. The only people who knew were Dorian, myself, our attorney, and...
A cold dread pooled in my stomach.
There was a traitor inside Dorian’s inner circle.
May you like
Inside the study, a chair scraped violently across the hardwood floor.
“Get out,” Dorian said.
